


A King's Attentions

by crossfirehurricane



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Courtly Love, F/M, Heartache, Heartbreak, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Older Man/Younger Woman, One-Sided Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Young Love, i don't even know just read it, in which sansa fawns over the king
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 16:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1273213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossfirehurricane/pseuds/crossfirehurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark has heard much of the King Rhaegar, but has yet to meet him. When he announces that he will accompany his wife, Lyanna, to the North for a visit, Sansa finds she is much anxious to meet him, and that the King seemed to feel the same.</p><p>No Robert's Rebellion here, just a peaceful ascension of Rhaegar to the throne with Lyanna as his one and only wife. Takes place in Winterfell and told from Sansa's POV. Completely AU, completely wild and spontaneous idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> (oh god oh god why do i keep getting fic ideas when i'm already writing two this is a problem)
> 
> So basically, let's lay down some marriage/political situations:  
> There was no Robert's Rebellion; Lyanna was betrothed to Rhaegar, and married him at age 14. Aerys died some way or another and Rhaegar's been king for a while. Everyone is happy and the kingdom is peaceful and familial relationships are largely normal (that's how AU this is).  
> Ned is married to Cat, Brandon to Barbrey, Benjen is at the wall. Let's say that Robert is married to Cersei or some lady in the Stormlands, even though it doesn't matter.
> 
> Everyone is older, and goes as follows:  
> Sansa, 15  
> Arya, 13  
> Robb & Jon, 18  
> Bran, 10  
> Rickon, 6  
> Lyanna, 33  
> Rhaegar, 37 (clearly, I've aged him down; instead of being eight years older than Lyanna, he's four)  
> A couple of OCs are in play as Lyanna and Rhaegar's children:  
> Daeron, 16  
> Rhaella, 11
> 
> For everyone else's ages, if you're really that curious, just look up their birth years on AWOIAF and compare them to Sansa's, since I've built this story around her.
> 
> This is basically a crack fic, but hey, I hope someone likes it!
> 
> Enjoy!

"Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night."

 -William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_

 

 

 

Sansa was going to see the king for the first time.

She had tried not to voice too much of her excitement over seeing King Rhaegar, since in truth she was expected to be eager to see her aunt, the Queen Lyanna, who was a Stark like her. But her aunt had visited Winterfell many times, and while Sansa liked her quite a lot, as she always brought her presents and courtly stories, she had never seen the King before. Whenever her aunt came, she never spoke of the King, nor did she even bring a portrait of him to remember him by on these moon-long holidays. Though Sansa was aware that her marriage had been arranged, as her own mother’s and father’s was, she also knew that wives and husbands often grew fond of each other over the course of time. Her own lord father and lady mother certainly were; it was not uncommon to look across to Lord and Lady Stark to see them beaming at each other, sharing kisses when they thought no one was looking, and holding hands as they walked together. It warmed Sansa’s heart to know that her parents were in love, and though the Queen Lyanna had been wed for the same amount of time as her parents, nineteen long years, Sansa often wondered if she even liked her lord husband, much less loved him.

But _everyone_ said the king was handsome and kind, that he was a good ruler and a wonderful diplomat who charmed every belligerent lord and bitter lady who came his way. She heard stories of how he showered his three children with affection, giving each of them nameday tourneys every year along with magnificent presents. He even gave his wife tourneys, for all her namedays, all her pregnancies, and all her births, and everyone said he loved her and treated her with more affection than any lord would pay his lady. He seemed a great man; so why didn’t her aunt fawn over him as her handmaidens did, the ones who saw him in flesh?

Perhaps that was only her aunt’s nature. She was a proud person, always wearing Stark colors despite the fact that she ought to be wearing Targaryen, and she always spoke of how the North brought her much calm and freedom. When she brought her children, she would coo over them, and show them off and speak highly of their accomplishments until her voice grew thin, but the King was never mentioned, even though he did greater things than learning to ride at an early age.

It didn’t matter, Sansa supposed. She was going to see the great King Rhaegar Targaryen for herself and perhaps then she could judge whether the rumors were true, and whether or not her aunt was mad.

Sansa was pulling aimlessly at a stitch in her embroidery before she gave a doleful sigh. "Oh, Jeyne," she lamented to her friend, Jeyne Poole, who sat across from her with her embroidery. "I don't think I can wait another day." She had expressed to her friend her excitement to see the royal family, but had omitted that it was the king she wished to see, not her cousins or her aunt.

Jeyne giggled. "Nor I," she confessed, biting her lip. She takes two secretive peeks around, checking to see that the septa was out of earshot, before leaning forward and whispering, "I hear your cousins have grown terribly handsome. They say the King comes to the North to find them brides."

Sansa raised her brows at this surprised to hear this gossip. She hadn't seen her two cousins in years; Jon, the eldest, last visited with his brother Daeron when he was ten and his brother eight. For every visit the Queen paid the North afterward, her two sons remained in King's Landing, while Robb was the one sent south to see his cousins. That did not mean she came alone; she always brought the Princess Rhaella, named so after her late grandmother, who was about 4 years younger than herself.

Sansa remembered only vaguely what her elder cousins looked like. She recalled Jon looking like he could be one of her own brothers, with his curly dark hair, sharp grey eyes, and sullen expression. Sitting beside his mother, there was no doubting that he was her son. The same could not be said for his younger brother, Daeron, whose fair skin, silvery hair, and bright lavender eyes pointed toward his Targaryen father. She heard only rumors now of her cousins; they say they both grew into tall, strong men with wide shoulders and lean muscle, both eternal rivals and both handsome to look at. There was always talk of picking sides, however. Some thought Jon was the fairer of the two, preferring his darkness, while others insisted that Daeron was more beautiful than he by miles. Sansa wondered which was true.

"Well, they are certainly old enough, aren't they?" Sansa asked with a sniff of indifference. "Jon is eight-and-ten and Daeron is but two years younger. Boys are married at less."

She sees Jeyne blush under her pale skin. "I do hope one of them looks my way. Particularly the younger one," she confesses in a small voice trembling with excitement. "Perhaps the King will allow them to marry for love."

Sansa wants to tell her that the princes would never look her way, the faintly pretty lady of a lesser lord, but the excitement in her voice urges her to bites her tongue. _Let her wish,_ Sansa tells herself, and offers a small smile to Jeyne.

"As if Jon would ever want to marry you!" A small, irritable voice pipes up from behind Sansa. Sansa turns around to pin Arya with daggers, wanting to throttle her for being so bold. Her little sister's hair is a wild mess and she tucked her dress into a pair of trousers, half of the fabric falling out. "Jon doesn't like prissy girls who sit inside and embroider all the time,” she said haughtily, pointing her nose up at the needle in Sansa’s hand. Sansa felt her anger spark, as it often did with her insufferable sister, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

"Arya!" Septa Mordane's voice warns with a biting edge. "You apologize to Lady Jeyne-"

"And how would _you_ know what Jon likes?" Sansa asks, her ears turning maddeningly hot. "You hardly know him!"

"I visited him for the past two years, stupid!" Arya shoots back, crossing her arms over her flat chest. Sansa had forgotten about that; her younger sister had gone with Robb for the past two years to visit King's Landing, allowing Sansa an entire moon without strife. " _And_ Jon writes me," Arya adds with a smug smirk. "He likes me better than you."

"That doesn't mean anything!" Sansa shot back, digging her fingertips into the fabric in her hand. “It’s like that he pities you-"

"Enough!" The septa scolds, stepping between the two sisters hands propped firmly on her wide hips. "You two are ladies and you shall come to behave as such. Should either of you display this horrid behavior before the King and his family-" Sansa sucked in a breath, shocked at the thought. “Well, I would fear for your skins should parents witness it.” Septa Mordane always said that, that they ought to fear for their skins, as if her father would tie her up and flay her. Sansa rolls her eyes when the septa turns away to glare at Arya, but does not cease her seething.

Arya only gives a little hmph, and turns to leave, but the Septa Mordane holds her shoulder and lowers her into a chair before passing her a piece of fabric and a needle.

Sansa turns away, satisfied that her sister had been properly chastised. Jeyne slumped forward with her head bowed over her needle and thread, a somber frown on her face. With a pang of guilt, Sansa reaches across to pat her friend on the knee. "Don't worry, Jeyne," she says sweetly. "I'm sure the princes will look your way." This seems to brighten her mood a little bit, though she seems somewhat aware that Sansa only said that they would look and little else.

* * *

Sansa was upset that they had to kneel and bow their heads once the royal procession passed through the gates. She wanted so badly to look at the Kingsguard in their white armor come in on their beautiful horses, to admire the ornateness of the wheelhouses, gaze at the lovely southern silk dresses, and spot the tallest, strongest men to stare at as they all poured through the tall iron gates. All this was lost to her as she stared at the dusty ground, though her heart beat in time to the gallops of the many horses, and her ears picked up every airy giggle that passed by a lady's lips. They all remained kneeling until a strong, rich voice called out to them, "Rise!"

Sansa hurriedly, but gracefully, rose to her feet, her eyes already searching in the crowd. She saw the familiar sight of her aunt, her long brown curls topped with a glittering crown as they hung loose around the shoulders of her blue gown. Her grey eyes shone as bright as her smile as she sat atop her chestnut brown mare, and her pale skin seemed to glow. But it was the man sitting tall upon a grand white stallion that Sansa had been eager to see. It was the man who told them to rise, and the most noble man in any company.

By the gods! Sansa had to catch her breath at the sight of him. His silvery hair was pin-straight, sweeping just past his shoulders and framing his strong face. He had eyes of the deepest purple, visible even from her place, with a straight nose, chiseled lips, and an elegant jaw. When he dismounted, Sansa could see he was tall, taller than her own father by at least four inches, who himself was no small man standing at a little over six feet. Wide shoulders tapered down to a slim waist, then led to a pair of long legs. He was strikingly beautiful, like a statue of a perfect man; muscle was apparent underneath his clothes, his face was youthful despite his age of seven-and-thirty, and he seemed both strong enough to crush a man but gentle enough to cradle a babe. To think now that her aunt hardly spoke of him truly affirmed that she was nearly mad.

He smiled kindly to her father, embracing him like an old friend, shook hands with her Uncle Brandon, kissed her mother’s and Lady Barbrey’s hand with refined propriety, and greeted her elder brother as he would greet any young lord, with a firm handshake and good eye contact. Sansa was due to be greeted next, but the King lingered with Robb, exchanging conversation with him. She spotted her aunt freeing himself from father’s embrace before sharing one with uncle. It was then that Sansa noticed an imposing presence towering over her. She gulped as she looked up into the intense eyes of her king, and found herself faltering before offering a curtsey.

She hears him give a polite chuckle. “You must be Lady Sansa,” he says in his steely voice, smiling down to her. “Your aunt has told me much about you.”

 _Would that I could say the same,_ Sansa nearly said, or might have said had her tongue not escaped her. She was struck dumb by his beauty and grace, and could only manage a meek nod. The king then took her hand and put a kiss to her knuckles as he did with her own mother, and murmured,

“It is good to meet you, my lady,” before he moved on to greet the more familiar Arya. Sansa felt heat rise high into her cheeks as she watched him embrace her sister and tousle her hair. _He looks so kind,_ she realized, and he truly did, with that soft little smile and his gentle hands. Sansa felt her knuckles tingle where his lips grazed her. _He is old enough to be your father,_ she quickly chastised herself as her septa would. A man of seven-and-thirty he was, but he looked half his age, and twice as wise.

Sansa was interrupted in her thoughts by her excitable aunt, who held her face and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Sansa dearest!” she cried to her with a bright smile, one she often wore within the walls of Winterfell. “You grow more lovely with each visit I pay you. Come now, darling, I’ll give you your presents yet, but you simply must see my sons. How long has it been since you’ve seen them? Years! Oh, come see how handsome they are. Jon! Daeron!” The words fell out of her mouth at a galloping rate, taking Sansa by a storm. After blinking and absorbing the information, Sansa follows her aunt’s delighted gaze to two tall youths laughing with Robb.

At their mother’s call, they turn their heads nearly at the same time. Sansa is struck first by the differences; while both were tall young men, nearly the same height, they were incredibly dissimilar. Jon, whom Sansa faintly recognized, was lithe and lean, with a build similar to his father’s with his long legs and narrow waist. His brother, on the other hand, had wide shoulders, a bulkier, more muscular form that reminded Sansa of her uncle Brandon. While both were fair in skin, Jon seemed fairer, inheriting the ivory tones of the Starks- and he truly did look like a Stark - interrupted only by the shadow of a beard. His brother was fair of skin also, but in an unblemished, youthful way that contrasted with Jon’s ruggedness.

When the two came closer, she saw eyes she recognized: Jon’s dark grey ones, and Daeron’s light purples. To look at them side-by-side made one wonder if they were related at all. Only their shared beauty bound them together.

“Come now, don’t stand dumb,” her aunt urges in her husky voice. “Greet your cousin kindly, as you ought to do a lady.”

Sansa sees Jon smile softly and Daeron roll his eyes. The elder son acts first, bowing from the waist. “It has been many years, cousin Sansa,” he said in his low, deep voice. Sansa gave a quick curtsey and a nod before looking to Daeron. She only then realized how her heart thumped against her ribs, excited over these two men. She only hoped her blush wasn’t terribly visible.

“Your face is a fair sight after such a journey,” Daeron says in a voice that was silkier, smoother than his brothers, almost musical. He leans down and kisses her hand, just above where his father kissed, then flashes her a wicked smile. “I pray I see it more in the coming days.” Sansa _knew_ that she blushed wildly now as the young prince boldly met her gaze. She ought to have responded to her cousins’ greetings, but her tongue felt heavy as stone.

“Gods be good, Daeron!” Lyanna huffed to him, saving Sansa from the humiliation of having to speak while tongue-tied. Her aunt was shooting daggers at her younger son with her sharp eyes. “Save your flirting for one as graceless as you.” There’s a harshness to her grimace that implied warning, as if she were reminding him of some past incident.

“It’s not likely I’ll find anyone like you, mother-“ The mischievous boy shoots back, earning him a slap on the shoulder before he broke into laughter. Sansa’s eyes flitted from him to Jon, who looked to his younger brother with a sort of mild irritability.

“Come now, Sansa, ignore my insolent son,” Lyanna tells her with an endearing edge of anger. “The presents I have brought you are sure to delight you much more.”

Sansa nodded eagerly, anxious to see what her aunt had brought her. She always had such wonderful taste, always bringing her nieces and nephews things that were worth keeping. For Sansa it was always dresses of silk both grand and simple, or jewelry of every stone. Robb often received weapons of what she was told was flawless craft, and Rickon and Bran would receive toys and models that could never be found in the North. While these were all fine things, Arya always received the strangest items. She would bring her little sister useless objects, such as knife belts, leather boots, riding trousers, and even a foal, once. Arya always loved what her aunt gave her, but Sansa never understood why. The year that the Queen had brought Arya a new saddle and a specially crafted wooden dagger, Sansa asked her father why she picked such strange things. Her father had only laughed and said, “Lyanna always did like to spoil children, but she always preferred indulging them.” When she asked what the difference was, he clarified by saying, “Spoiling is giving children the things they want. Indulging is understanding what they need as well.”

She didn’t understand it then, and she feared she never would. 

* * *

Her eyes would not leave the King the entire night.

There was something utterly bewitching about him that Sansa could not put to words, and thus she continued to stare in hopes of finding a way to describe him.

His beautiful face remained a serene, kindly mask at all times, as he smiled at every lady, looked with respect to every lord, and chuckled at every child. When his steely gaze swept across the room, it was as if he was commanding every body in it. When his eyes would graze over her, Sansa would feel a blush creep on her cheek. There was simply something so _powerful_ about his even gaze, able to dominate the spirit with a glimmer of those dark purple eyes. Of course, his beauty certainly enhanced his hold, as Sansa found it truly unmatched among any man she had ever seen. Her eyes flit to Jon and Daeron briefly, the two shoulder-to-shoulder with Robb, and she finds that for all the talk, neither boy is so handsome as their father.

When Sansa was not struck by King Rhaegar's beauty, she was baffled by Queen Lyanna's indifference. With how much she stared at him, she noticed some things about the King and the Queen beside him. She saw how he held her hand over the table, occasionally taking a moment to lift it and kiss her palm, or her knuckles, or the inside of her wrist. He saw how he gazed at her with such tenderness, how he leaned over to kiss her cheek, and that his hand left hers only once, and that was to stroke her hair. The Queen seemed to notice none of this; she was always too engaged in chatter with Sansa's lady mother, or laughing with Uncle Brandon, or cooing over whatever child was presented to her, namely little Rickon, who sat on her knee for a large part of the evening. Not once did she return the King's gentle affections, or even acknowledge them. Even when no one engaged her attentions, she seemed to only regard the King if he spoke to her. Otherwise, he seemed invisible to her.

"Oh, Jeyne," she sighs wistfully to her friend beside her, who had her eye on Daeron the whole night. "It's like he's not even there." It saddened her more than it should to see this warm husband be treated icily by his wife. Sansa knew she would have loved a husband as gentle as he, and even more if he was half as handsome.

"What?" Jeyne asks, blinking to follow her eyes. "You mean the Queen?"

"Yes," Sansa says with a frown.

"What of my mother?" A little voice urged from beside her. Sansa suppressed a gasp as she seemed only to just recall that the Princess Rhaella sat beside her. She was easy to forget, what with her soft little voice, slight figure, and demure ways. That was not to say that she wasn't lovely, of course; her voice had a melodious quality to it that hinted toward a skill for singing, and for her tender age she was quite striking. With her smooth pale skin, wide grey eyes, and long silver curls, she was made of the best of her two parents. In her darkest moments, Sansa would envy her beauty.

"I was just noting what a lovely dress your mother had on," Sansa said as a quick cover-up, not willing to admit that she had been staring at her cousin's much older father for most of the evening.

"Then why were you frowning?" Rhaella asked in her soft sweet voice, her wide eyes darling in the hazy light of the Great Hall. For all her beauty, she was also unusually sharp; she found it wasn't quite fair that she had both.

"I'm a little jealous, I suppose. I do wish the North made dresses such as hers," Sansa answered after licking her lips. She hoped her cousin wouldn't be so shrewd as to know that her mouth went dry when she lied.

Instead, she only tilted her head slightly. "That is a Northern dress," her cousin said in all plainness. Sansa wanted to pinch herself for her loose lips. "My mother does not wear Southern silks north of the Neck."

"Truly?" Sansa asked in feigned surprise. "In this light, I had thought it fine silk. Your mother has a way of making all clothes seem striking on her.”

This convinces Rhaella; she offers a radiant smile and a nod before turning her eyes back to the crowd. Sansa bites back a sigh of relief.

Jeyne's hand suddenly grips hers, shaking it. "Sansa, they're coming here!" she trilled excitedly underneath her breath. Sansa followed her eyes to see who.

It was Daeron, Jon, and Robb, the three walking over with their own unique, yet equally confident, gaits. They caught the eyes of many a girl as they cut through the crowd; some giggled, some blushed, and one was bold enough to reach out and touch Jon’s sleeve. Jeyne herself was looking upon them, awestruck, and Sansa hoped she didn’t look so lovelorn.

Sansa and Jeyne rise to greet them, the two offering curtsies. “Good eve, cousin Jon, Daeron,” Sansa bids them kindly. “I pray the feast is to your likings.” There was a glint in Daeron’s eye as his gaze raked over Jeyne’s body, seeming to hint that he liked more than the feast. “I do hope Northern food is appealing to your palates. I’m sure they serve much better fare south,” Sansa continues to speak in hopes that Jeyne doesn’t faint from Daeron’s attentions.

Jon gives a chuckle. “Come now, Lady Sansa, don’t you know our mother at all?” he asks with a teasing lilt. Sansa blinked at him, unsure of how to respond. “We dine on more Northern dishes than Southron. Our lady mother has made sure of that.” His smile was kind and not at all smug, but Sansa cannot help but feel a little embarrassed.

Regaining her composure, she gives a little nod. It made sense; her aunt was proud and strong-willed. Of course she would have them eat like Northerners.

She saw off to her left that Robb was speaking to Rhaella, offering her his hand, which she took as she rose to her feet. It seemed that he was asking her to dance, and as if on cue, the music began the second she rose. Sansa could not help but look to the King and Queen to see if they would dance; neither stirred.

“Lady Sansa,” Jon said to her, drawing her attention again. “Might you honor me with-“

“Jon!” Arya’s voice cries out from the side. Sansa had to bit back a scold. “Come here, you have to see what auntie Lya brought me!” She comes rushing in between them, grabbing Jon’s hand and dragging him off to the side. Jon gives her an apologetic smile before he allows himself to be led away.

Daeron gives a sigh, and Sansa sees that his eyes were fixed intently on her face. “My brother is hopeless with women. He allows them to rule him too often, you see,” he says in a rich voice that Sansa found strikingly similar to the King’s. But then, it made sense; he was his father’s likeness in every way. “I would be honored if you’d dance with me, lady Sansa.” He smiles a dazzling smile, and Sansa finds herself nodding before even realizing that she was agreeing.

He holds her hand and leads her to the center of the hall. He then put a hand on her waist and folded her fingers between his own as they began to move in time to the music. Sansa allowed herself a guilty glance Jeyne’s way, who looked forlorn sitting alone at the table.

“Won’t you smile, Lady Sansa?” Daeron purrs to her in a low, husky voice. “You’ve looked like the saddest little bird all evening.” Something in his tone prompts her to blush, as if he had told a bawdy jape. But she does smile, as he seemed to will her to smile, and he rewards her by smiling back.

 _He is more handsome when he smiles,_ Sansa noted as her blush deepened. The prince had a certain beauty to him that could hardly be compared to Jon’s ruggedness, and it was a beauty she could very well become used to.

Yet even as the young prince twirled her around and gently pushed his fingers into her back, Sansa found herself stealing a glance at the King, as he had his hand on the back of the Queen’s neck, leaning in and whispering something into her ear. Sansa is spun away before she can see her aunt’s reaction, and once she comes in sight again, she sees that the Queen had risen from her seat to take Uncle Brandon’s hand to dance.

As her aunt laughed and spun in Brandon’s arms, the King looked after her with kind eyes that left Sansa with a strangely aching heart.


	2. Desires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa shares a dance with someone special, and learns a few things about the Queen.

Sansa’s eyes were bleary by the time and her body tired before the night was over.

The colorful dresses moving to dance after dance, the low tones of a knight’s voice retelling a gallant tale, the sweet ones of a bard singing of a maiden saved from bears by a gallant lord, the sounds of kisses shared by giggling women and tall men, all of it, all of the splendor and romances of the South seemed to have filled the Great Hall by the end of the evening.

She had trouble keeping up with it all, but it was not an uncomfortable task. Each sight delighted her, and had her feeling dizzy with glee. She grew bold enough to go another two dances with Daeron, one with Jeyne and some other girls, and even one with little Rickon, whom she had to bend down to dance with. Ladies with pinned hair and fragrant necks asked her an array of questions about the North, clearly surprised by it, though Sansa wanted to ask a hundred more about the South. It seemed much more interesting than bland Winterfell with its grey walls and familiar faces. Sansa wanted the court, the fast pace of it all, the beauty and grace. She wanted knights to ask for her favor and for men to court her with letters and flowers.

Sansa wanted to marry and move to court.

She knew her aunt would let her live there once she was wed, and Sansa truly, desperately wanted to wed. Of all the handsome faces she laid on tonight, Sansa knew at least one would do. One who had a silvery voice and gentle hands, strong arms and a dazzling smile. Sansa was all of five-and-ten, flowered and practically a woman. Though her parents seemed in no hurry to marry her off, Sansa _wanted_ to get married. She wanted to fall in love and be courted, to be married away from Winterfell and sent to court where she can be a courtier like these other refined, graceful women. Her aunt had wed at four-and-ten and she was the most graceful woman Sansa knew.

She had just finished a dance with Robb when she had been tapped on the shoulder by another man. She whirled around, her face flushed and smiling from her brother’s fast dance, and her heart nearly stopped at the sight.

 _The King,_ Sansa thought with a mixture of fright and glee. _It’s the King!_

Sansa quickly curtsied, trying not to lose herself in the dark purple pools of his eyes and looked up at him through her lashes. Sansa was not short for a girl, but the King bested her by a whole foot.

“Your grace,” she breathed, hoping to the gods that she did not blush.

“My lady,” he said with a deep bow. “Might you honor me with a dance?”

Sansa quickly glanced over to her aunt, who seemed in deep conversation with her father Eddard. She did not seem to notice that her husband had disappeared from her side, though Sansa found she was unsurprised by this. The Queen clearly did not find the King as enchanting as Sansa did.

“Of course, your grace,” Sansa agree with a wide smile. Her took her gently by the hand and led her to the middle of the floor. Every eye in the room seemed to be on her, as she came to the realization that this was the King’s first dance of the evening. The first, and Sansa was who he chose.

The music ceased suddenly before picking up in a slower, fairer tune. A Rose of Gold it was, one that was rarely heard in the North, but then the bards that night were not Northern. Sansa still knew the song; she knew all the songs.

The King did not grip her as tightly as Daeron did or spin her as swiftly as Robb; he held her hand with the merest grasp and touched her waist with polite affection, no more than a married man ought to. His eyes were fixed on her face, never leaving her eyes, binding her to his spell. Sansa was utterly speechless and felt like no more than a doll in his hands as he led her around the floor. She could only stare at the chiseled lines of his face, the tenderness in his eyes, and toward the end, his lips. He sang underneath his breath, just so she could hear, the last words of the song.

Sansa felt herself blush, and grow dizzier than if she had been spun around. When the music came to a halt, he took his hands off her and offered a deep bow. In her reverie, Sansa could not respond; she stared at this magical King for a moment longer before she returned his gesture with a curtsey.

The hall burst with applause, but all seemed to fade out once the King laid eyes on her again.

“Thank you for the dance, my lady,” he tells her in his rich, pleasing voice.

“Of course, your grace,” she breathed in return, her eyes following him as he returned to his seat by the Queen. She had greeted him with a little smile when he did, the first bit of affection she seemed to show her husband all evening. He returned it with a much wider grin.

Sansa returned to her seat as if in a dream. Jeyne grabbed her arm and shook her, her face alight with excitement. “Sansa, the King danced with you!” she exclaimed, nearly tearing her arm off. “It’s just like a song!”

“Yes,” Sansa said with a dreamy smile. “It was just like a song.”

* * *

They all clapped as the King sent another Kingsguard knight to the ground with a strong swing of his sword. This one was Ser Oswell, as Sansa’s aunt informed her, and a good man and better swordsman. Sansa watched as the King sheathed his sword to lean down and offer a hand to the fallen knight, who accepted it with a hearty laugh. Sansa clapped harder.

She and the rest of the ladies had been watching the men spar for some time now. She didn’t particularly like the sport, as Sansa always found swordplay boring and needlessly violent, but it was the activity that the Queen had set on doing, and thus the rest of them followed. Arya seemed to enjoy it very much, as she would yell vulgarly from the Queen’s side and clap louder than the rest of them when a man fell, which might have embarrassed Sansa had her aunt not smiled so widely at Arya’s enthusiasm. Sansa could hardly understand why her refined aunt liked Arya so much, who was loud and uncouth, as the Queen herself was so regal and mindful.

Uncle Brandon had stepped up now, rolling his shoulders as if to show off. He was very handsome for his age, and looked very much a Stark with his dark hair and grey eyes. Sansa had heard it said that he could be the Queen’s twin with their striking similarities both physical and behavioral, but she could hardly fathom how there could be any connection between a man so large and blustering and a woman so small and graceful.

“Do your worst, Rhaegar,” her uncle called out to the King. Sansa nearly gasped at his informality, but she caught a hint of a smile on the King’s fair face, and knew it was not so great a sin in his eyes.

“I must ask, Lyanna,” her mother says from across the table, her strong blue eyes fixed on the Queen. “Who do you cheer for in such a match: your husband or your brother?”

The Queen gave a sly smile and tilted her head. “I cheer for the one who’s more likely to lose.” Her cryptic answer was met with a chuckle by her lady mother, but a nervous smile from Lady Barbrey.

“Who might that be, your grace?” she asked in her small voice. Lady Barbrey seemed like such a fragile thing to be wed to such a large man. She was also barren, giving Brandon Stark no sons or daughters. It was a precarious position as Lady of Winterfell, and it seemed that succession would continue through her lord father Eddard’s line instead. Sansa couldn’t help but pity her, but she also preened at the idea of Robb becoming Lord of Winterfell one day.

“Who do you think, Lady Barbrey?” The Queen returns with that same mysterious smile. No sooner had the words left her lips that the King had his sword pointed at Brandon’s throat. Her uncle stared forward to the King for some time before giving a tight smile and sheathing his sword. He seemed unhappy at his loss, though the King was graceful enough to offer a second match. He had refused.

The Queen claps politely, and the others follow her gesture, even Arya, who didn’t like to follow anyone. “My brother has always had a certain measure of pride,” she murmurs sidelong to Rhaella beside her, but Sansa heard it too. “Look at him mope. Gallant fool.” Indeed, her uncle did seem to mope, standing off to the side with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed menacingly at the King. Sansa hoped he wouldn’t do anything foolish.

The Queen gives a shrug and picks up her goblet from the table. Sansa could not help but notice that her aunt was quite fond of wine. That was not to say that she was a drunk, of course, but she certainly enjoyed her cups. Even as she drank she seemed always able to keep her grace and her wits about her. She cradled the goblet between her hands, setting it in her lap, before she leaned back in her chair and gave a sigh.

“How I missed the North!” she exclaimed softly, smiling warmly at someone across the yard. It was not the King, Sansa noticed, who was taking a drink of water off to the side. “I do wish I never had to leave,” her aunt confessed, her eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure.

Sansa found this confession passing odd. How could she yearn for such a thing? The North had its beauty, sure, but the stories she told of the South made it seem much fairer than frigid Winterfell. And the court! The opulence of it made King’s Landing great by that alone.

“Winterfell would gladly have you, your grace,” her lady mother tells the Queen with a smile. Sansa thinks for a moment that Lady Barbrey should have said that, as she was lady of Winterfell; but then again, mother more or less ran Winterfell. She was simply better at it.

“Would that I could stay forever,” the Queen sighs wistfully. “But the kingdom would simply fall apart. It hardly hangs on as it is when I am gone each year; without my husband, I imagine poor Lord Connington is considering resigning from his position at his very moment.” Jon Connington was Hand of the King, Sansa knew. He was said to be a close friend of the King’s. If that were true, then there was no doubt he was a good man.

“Is Winterfell better than the South?” Arya asks, voicing what Sansa wished to ask herself. Only her sister would be so bold as to ask.

The Queen continued smiling. “But of course, child,” she said in an airy tone. “I grew up here. It is closer to my heart than any other place in the world.”

“But aunt Lyanna,” Sansa tells her with a little frown, unable to keep her opinions to herself. “There’s hardly anything here. In South you have the court.” She spotted some courtiers off to right of the yard, standing in a circle in their lovely gowns and giggling at the men who showed off for them in the yard. She wanted so badly to be one of them, always looking beautiful, permitted to travel and marrying a handsome young lord. It was her dream, and the events from last night had only reaffirmed it.

“The court, child?” Her aunt asks with a raised brow. “It is hardly anything to be excited over. You are welcome to visit it yourself one day, with your parents’ permission.”

Visit? Sansa wanted to do more than visit. She remembered the couples she saw the night before, each noble pair dressed in southron silks and kissing. Every man had been tall and handsome, and every woman fair and lovely. That what was Sansa wanted. “Can I live there once I am wed?” Sansa blurts out.

The Queen, who was usually delighted by Sansa, suddenly gave her a very cold look. “Why do you think of marriage?” she asks in genuine concern. Sansa thinks for a moment that she might have said something wrong, and tries to quickly cover up.

“I only mean-“

“Sansa is always talking about getting married,” Arya cuts in, making a face. Sansa wanted to claw at her. “You should hear how-“

“Arya,” her mother’s voice warned, shooting her daughter a warning glance.

“Dearest Sansa,” the Queen addresses her with a frown, leaning in closer to her. Sansa begins to feel anxious, unhappy with the attention that her aunt paid her. “You mustn’t for a second think of marrying so young. You are still in the greatest years of your life.”

“I think it would be nice to be married,” she confesses though she feels her face turning red, a color that was hardly appealing with her own bright hair. “You were wed at less,” she reminds her, hoping to quell the stifling air with a good point; instead, a darkness passes over her aunt’s face.

“That I was, sweet Sansa. A wife at four-and-ten, a mother at five-and-ten, and a Queen at six-and-ten,” she tells her gravely; her hard voice seems to reduce the sound of clashing steel in the background. Sansa could see the King fell someone else in the corner of her eye, but she could hardly pay attention. “Marriage has robbed me of my girlhood. You ought to cherish your life as it is now.” She then leaned back in her seat, her face still an iron mask.

Sansa eyes were hot with tears; she hated being scolded, and though her aunt did not raise her voice, her words had been biting. _Why is she complaining?_ she finds herself seething. _She is married to the greatest man in the world. She’s a Queen who lives at court and wears pretty dresses has princes and princesses for children._ Her aunt had her song; Sansa wanted one too. Yet Sansa saw how little mind she paid her perfect husband, and her cold regard toward him. _Just because she’s unhappy doesn’t mean I’ll be._

“Besides, darling Sansa, the court is terribly boring,” The Queen speaks up again, her voice much more airy and her face now bearing a kind smile. “There’s one good lady for every ten insufferable ones. All they talk about are their children and their husbands, and gods help you if you are stuck in conversation about one of the two.” She reached over and patted her hand. “Do not feel in any hurry and come and subject yourself to torment, darling.”

Sansa gave a submissive nod, but only to please her. She still wanted to wed and live there, no matter what her aunt said.

“Mother!” A man’s voice called from across the yard. Sansa turned her head to see Jon Targaryen in dark furs and pulling on gloves. His brother was at his side, as well as Sansa’s, and the three seemed to be dressed for something. Jon gave a nod to Daeron and Robb before walking over to his mother. He gave a bow first to all the ladies, paying Arya a wink and Sansa a smile. “A group of us are going riding,” he said to his mother. “I thought you might want to join us.”

Sansa saw the light pass into her aunt’s eyes, more joy shining through them in that moment than any other, not even when the King had kissed her hand and cheek at supper the night before. “Oh, yes, I’d love to go,” she croons delightfully, putting down her cup and rising to her feet. “Would any of you ladies care to join me?”

Sansa wrinkled her nose. She didn’t much like riding, and she was already too miffed with her aunt to join her anywhere. Arya, however, jumped up.

“I want to go!” she exclaimed with a smile. Then, right then and there, managing to embarrass Sansa even further, Arya pulled her dress above her waist, revealing a pair of boots and trousers, and shoved the fabric down the front of the latter.

“Arya!” her mother scolded, pinning her with an angry glare. Sansa was doing the same.

Her aunt began to laugh heartily, the noise louder than any courtier’s airy giggles. Jon smiled down at Arya, amused rather than shocked, and Sansa wished that the two of them hadn’t reacted so lightly. They were only encouraging her.

“Well, it seems you’re ready enough,” her aunt said after her laughing had ceased. She was wiping a tear away from the corner of her eye. “Come along then, let’s not keep anyone waiting.” Then she turned to Jon. “Is your father coming with us?”

Sansa’s embarrassment is forgotten at the mention of the King. She looks to the yard to see him wipe the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, still smiling that serene smile at another knight he had felled.

“Your grace!” Jon calls to his father, conscious of using his title. The King looks over to him at once. “Will you come riding with us?”

He comes closer, sheathing his sword as he did. He nodded politely to the ladies, and his eyes mets hers for a brief moment. Sansa blushed. “I think I’m entirely too tired to go riding,” he said to his son. “Had you asked me ten years ago, I might have agreed.”

“You’re not too old, your grace,” Jon returns with a grin. “I say you could come with us if you want.”

“If your father insists, dearest Jon, then perhaps you ought to heed him,” the Queen said in warning.

“I do insist,” the King added.

“Then let’s not waste any time. Let us be on our way.” How quickly she disregarded him! It was as if he were an old gown that she wanted to be rid of. She then turned to them, giving a graceful little nod, before walking in the direction of the stables with Arya on her heels. Jon lingers longer, patting his father’s shoulder and giving him a knowing nod before following.

“If you’ll excuse me,” the King said once his kin was out of sight. With another nod, he turns from them and walks to the castle.

“Mother does like to go riding,” little Rhaella notes in her sweet voice. She had been sitting beside her mother before she left, and now shifted into her seat.

Sansa’s eyes were still on the King as he walked indoors.

* * *

When the activities outside had begun to bore her, Sansa returned to the castle. She thought she might go to the kitchens and ask for the lemon cakes she loved so much, just as a snack, but she found herself going closer to her chambers instead.

She was still a little upset at the Queen’s cold words, but she found that anger fading. Sansa would wed in time, despite her aunt’s wishes, and it would be everything she wanted and more. She would be the lady of some noble house, have a handsome husband, bear all his little babes, and she would be very, very happy. That was what happened with her own mother, and though her father wasn’t terribly handsome, the two were happily married and in love. The Queen was being selfish, she supposed, with her beautiful king and lovely children.

She dwelled for a moment on the number of children that the Queen bore. Three was a small number by most standards, and certainly by her own. Her mother had five children, and her grandmother had four before she died. The Queen’s brood was decidedly lacking. But perhaps that too was a result of her lack of love? Sansa wasn’t sure.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of music. It was the soft tones of a harp, its sound elegant and lovely. Sansa recognized the song quickly, as its origins hailed from the North: The Winter Maid. Sansa had heard it many times, but never like this before. For paired with the beautiful sound of the harp was a voice unlike any Sansa had heard before. It was clear and breathtaking, carrying the tune of the words with graceful skill. The harp fell on her ears and forced her to halt, but the voice overtook her senses and sent her searching for it, luring her like the scent of lemon cakes.

She turned a corner, not paying much attention to the corridor she passed through, and continued to walk until the voice grew louder, clearer. At the end of the hall was a door ajar, letting out the rapturous tones from inside. Sansa could not help but walk to it, if only to catch a glimpse of the skilled bard. She takes slow, careful steps, making sure that she didn’t interrupt the song with her own noise, and places her hands on the edge of the doorframe. She poked her head in, just enough to see the man.

His silver hair was tied back with a ribbon, streaming down his back and catching the light that the window allowed to pour through. His eyes were focused on the silver harp between his legs, his hands moving onto it with artful grace, nimble fingers plucking at the strings as one might thread through hair. Between parted lips poured out his golden voice, singing the woes of the Winter Maid with enough passion to bring tears to her eyes.

Sansa had no clue the King was so skilled.

She knew she couldn’t stay; to be caught by him would be too much embarrassment to bear in one day. She backs away to leave, her eyes still fixated on the ethereal scene inside, when a hand gripped her shoulder and stopped her in her tracks. Sansa gasped, and turned around, meeting the eyes of a man who was tall and wide, with dark hair, dark eyes, and dark skin. His face was unsmiling and cold as he growled,

“What do you think you’re doing, girl?”


	3. Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's captured the king's attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Enjoy!

When Love speaks, the voice of all the gods  
Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony.  
-William Shakespeare, _Love's Labour's Lost_

 

 

 

 

Sansa could not speak. Before her was a man so large and fearsome, that that alone was enough to snatch her tongue away. But he had hard eyes that sunk into his skull, boring into her like black diamonds, interrogating her, stripping her of any courage. Sansa felt herself tremble as she tried to speak, her words coming out thin and quivering. "I-I... I was just-..."

The grip on her shoulder became tighter, and Sansa nearly began to sob.

"What is going on out here?" A silvery voice asked from behind her, the very same that sang of a winter maid. The King was here to save her, it seems, though Sansa could hardly breathe as it was.

"Caught this girl sneaking around your room," the gruff man answered whirling her around with one hand. Sansa looked up to the King with tear-filled eyes.

"I was only listening, your grace," she managed to sputter quickly. "Your voice- You have such a-" She bit her lip hard so she wouldn't cry; she'd been made a fool of enough times in one day.

"Ser Gerold, have you lost your wits?" The King addressed the frightening man behind her. "This is Lady Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, and the Queen's niece. Unhand her at once." The man, Ser Gerold it seemed, obeyed, letting go his fierce grip on her shoulder.

"My apologies, my lady," he grunted. Sansa turned around so she could receive him properly, though she was still shaking.

Sansa swallowed hard, and managed a curtsey. "The King calls you Ser Gerold," she manages after a lick of her dry lips. "Have I the honor of speaking to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?"

The frightening man gave her a surprisingly warm, however slight, smile. "You are correct, my lady."

The King gives a chuckle. "She is as smart as she is lovely, it seems," he compliments kindly, sending a strange excitement coursing through her veins. Sansa turns to look at him to see him smiling his always-kind smile. He leaned against the doorframe, locks of hair splayed over his shoulder and arms crossed over his broad chest. The sunlight still played at magic with him, illuminating him and making him seem more divine than human. "I do hope Ser Gerold did not give you much fright. Though he ought to have known better, what with how we danced last night." Sansa's heart flutters at the memory. She hears Ser Gerold apologize again behind her, but she hardly pays attention. The King's eyes had drawn her in again, making her deaf to everything else. "Now, what were you doing here, child?" he asks her, still smiling.

"I heard you singing," Sansa admits, looking up at him shyly. "You have a beautiful voice. Better than any bard's." And she meant it; the King's silvery tones were fairer than any that she had ever heard.

"You flatter me, my lady," he croons, eyes flashing. He really was quite beautiful, breathtakingly so, just like a king out of a song. Sansa thinks she could gaze at him forever, given the time. "Are you learned with the harp?"

The question catches her off guard. Sansa was learned at many things, but they were useful things, like embroidery, etiquette, prayer, and writing. For a girl to learn an instrument beyond that of her own voice was seen as a useless task and a waste of time. Even _riding_ was more beneficial than music. She had no choice but to shake her head no.

The King raises his brows, but whether it was in surprise or amusement she could not tell. "Would you like to learn?"

Sansa blinks at him, unsure of how to respond. _Did I hear him right?_ she muses. _Did the King offer to teach me?_ Nay, he only asked if she would _like_ to learn, not that he would teach her. For the king himself to teach instruct her would be too fanciful.

"I would wish to learn, if I had an instructor at Winterfell," Sansa replies, telling what was largely the truth.

"How fortunate that one exists, then," he says with a teasing lilt, though Sansa did not understand his meaning. "If you would settle for me, I would be glad to teach you."

Sansa lets out a unbidden gasp. "You, your grace? I could— I could never-" But she could, as he had asked, and she certainly wanted to. To have those long, elegant fingers teach her hands to pluck at those sliver strings and make the beautiful music he made was all too wonderful. But he was the King— how could he have time for her?

 _Perhaps because his wife had no time for him,_ Sansa thinks cruelly, remembering her cold aunt. _Mayhaps he searches for acceptance in me._ And what sort of monster would she be to deny him?

"Please, Lady Sansa, I insist," he urges in his gentle way.

"If his grace would make time for me," Sansa begins carefully, biting back a grin. "Then I should be more than glad to learn."

Sansa swore his eyes brightened. He stepped back and gestured for her to come inside, into the bedchambers that had been arranged for him and the queen. Sansa took a quick look back to see that Ser Gerold was gone before stepping inside. The silver harp sparkled in the sunlight that poured through the window, casting light on her hands. She boldly reached out to touch it, moving a finger down its polished curve. A dragon was sculpted into the long edge, coiling around it to where a curl of silver flame emerged from its opened mouth like a figurehead. It was a lovely harp, much too lovely to be wasted on unskilled hands.

"Are you sure I may learn on it?" she asks him tentatively, casting a surprised look his way.

"Of course," he replied, stepping to it with large strides that his long legs allowed. "I had taught all my children on this harp. It is much older, and much sturdier, than it looks."

Sansa raised her brows. "All of your children know how to play?" Rhaella certainly seemed the musical sort, but not her older male cousins, as tall and lean and martial as they looked.

He gave a melodious chuckle. "All of them know how, but they are all different in their learning. Jon had the patience, but lacked the skill. Daeron had the skill, but lacked the patience. Rhaella had both patience and skill, and now I fear she is more learned than I am." Sansa could hardly believe it. A princess surely had better things to learn than music if she were to be wed one day, but it seemed to her that the King found importance in music. "I had even tried to teach your aunt, but alas, she lacked both patience and the skill." He did not seem somber at this note, but a flash of emotion moved past his eyes when he spoke. When they fixed on her, meeting her gaze, Sansa's breath came stuck in her throat. "It would please me greatly to have another student to teach."

Sansa's mouth becomes dry, as excitement seemed to feed off of her. To be taught to play by a king, and one so kind and fair seemed liked a dream. It certainly felt like a dream, with all the light and the grand silver harp, and with the King himself glowing before her. She thinks for a brief moment that she ought to ask her parents' permission, or perhaps ever her aunt's, but she brushes the thought aside. If the King offers, whom would they be to disagree?

Their lessons begin that moment. He asks her kindly to sit down, though it was his chair, and begins to describe the parts of the harp.

"This is the head," he informed in his clear voice, his fingertips brushing the dragon's spiraling flame. "This is the neck." His hand moves down the top length of the instrument and Sansa can only watch, mesmerized by how he made such simple things seem magical. "This end here," he runs his hand halfway down the shorter end of the harp. "Is the body. Not too difficult, is it?" Sansa shakes her head excitedly, her eyes fixed on those long, elegant fingers wrapped around the body of the harp. He reaches across so that his arm was stretched before her and touches the longer end, where the dragon had coiled his scaled body around. "This is the column. Do you understand, Lady Sansa?"

"Yes, your grace," Sansa replied, breathless

"The body is what you hold to you when you play," he instructed, moving the harp closer to her. Sansa found herself blushing despite herself. There was something sweet about his words, an element that was gilded and romantic that only gallant knights in songs had. But what was King Rhaegar, if not gallant?

He continued to speak, explaining how the strings held a higher note at one end and a lower at another, that one's fingers must be light as they plucked, not pulled, at them. Sansa hardly touched the harp at all but to drag her fingers from one end to the other, to hear the change in intonation as the King insisted she should. Sansa hung on every word he had said in that hour, paying close attention to his instructions and descriptions, watching the shape of his lips when he said her name.

By the end of their time that day, the King sat back in a chair beside her, still smiling. "Shall we end our lessons for today?" he asked her in that charming voice.

 _No,_ she wanted to say. _Just a little longer!_

"If it please you, your grace," she said instead. She rose when he rose, and he guided her to the door with the merest touch of his hand on her back.

“We may have another lesson tomorrow if you like, Lady Sansa,” he told her. “Mayhaps around the same time as today?”

Sansa nodded vigorously. To see the King again in such an intimate setting would surely be the greatest blessing of her life.

“If you learn swiftly, I may teach you a song before I return home,” he promised with flashing eyes. “But that is only if you truly wish to learn.”

“Oh, yes, your grace,” she insists, wide-eyed and breathless. “I would very much like to learn.”

He studies her solemnly for a brief few seconds before allowing a smile sliver of a smile. “I’m glad, my lady.”

Sansa felt herself flush underneath his tender gaze.

_So am I._

* * *

Their lessons occur daily, as promised, and by the fourth day he promised he would teach her a song.

It was surely to be a simple song, as she knew so little, but he had been a remarkable teacher and Sansa was an eager student, which was strange indeed, as Sansa was not one for studies. But when the King stood by her, instructing her with his boundless patience, she could not help but listen attentively.

She hears music come from the room they met in, leaving Sansa feeling intoxicated. She followed the sound as she did the first day of her lessons, giving a nod to Ser Gerold at the door, who gave her a rare smile in return, before stepping inside.

The king was sitting, holding his harp to him as his fingers plucked expertly at the strings, their vibrations reaching her ears in a slow, melodious rhythm. Sansa listens closely to recognize the tune, but she finds that she cannot. It is unlike any song Sansa had ever heard, Northern or otherwise. But it moved at an easy pace, with rich, grand tones that plucked at Sansa’s heartstrings as the king’s fingers did the harp. Never had she produced sounds so dulcet and fluttering as he did now, and between the rises and falls, Sansa heard him hum to the sound, his eyes bright in intense focus. But his face is serene, looking entirely at peace with the harp in his lap and his fingers dancing upon it, building a tune that Sansa thinks is the loveliest she’s ever heard.

But he stops when he sees her, surprise apparent in his handsome face. “You’re here,” he says flatly before a smile crept upon his face, one that sends her heart into a frenzy. “You weren’t supposed to hear that. At least, not yet.”

The mystery of his words excite her. She takes a step closer to him as he rises from his chair, setting the harp back upon the table. “Not yet, your grace?” she asked, unable to keep silent her curiosity.

“Nay, my lady. Not ’til tonight.” His meaning remains elusive as the smallest hint of mischief flashes in his eyes.

“Did you write it yourself, your grace?” She had never heard it before, after all, and she thinks this is the answer. He was a many of many talents, after all, so why not songwriting as well?

“I did,” he allowed, not inching far from the chair when she lowers herself into it. His looming presence continues to shorten her breath as she struggles to politely meet his eye. She fears her own excitement at the close would be too apparent, but he does not seem to notice. “I wrote it for someone close to my heart,” he adds, still keeping obscurity.

“I cannot wait to hear it, your grace,” she imparts breathlessly, and she means it too. It seems he was keeping a secret between them, which Sansa found terribly intimate, as there was nothing more thus than a secret. She feels all that they shared thus far had been a secret; their lessons had even been secret until her mother came to ask where she disappears to for an hour a day. Her mother had found it wonderful that the king expended so much time for her; Sansa thinks ‘wonderful’ hardly covers it.

“But wait you shall,” he adds to tease. Sansa blushes, and she thinks by the smile on his face that he enjoys making her blush, as she does it so often around him. She can hardly help herself in this. The consolation is that Sansa looks pretty when she blushes; or so she had been told.

“Yes, your grace,” she returned, licking her lips after. He looked down tenderly upon her, dark purple eyes dazzling in the sunlight, leaving her feeling faint. _He is so beautiful,_ she muses. _The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen._

“Shall we begin, then?” he asks, not breaking eye contact as he tilted his head toward the harp.

“Yes, your grace,” Sansa said again. She brings the harp into her lap with as much grace as she could, the silver cold beneath her hands, but the weight was hardly impressive, thanks the gods. Sansa thinks she could not carry anything heavier. The king then reaches for her hand, and his touch sends a fire through her limbs. She is still as ice as he raised her hand to the middle of the harp, pushing her fingers down on the strings there.

“We shall begin here,” he uttered, and Sansa gives a meek nod. His fingers slip from her skin as he begins to speak to her, instructing her on which strings to pluck, taking the song step-by-step. Sansa hears no music yet at her slow place, but she listens with attentiveness as he speaks.

But Sansa’s attention spikes again when he touches her knuckles, bringing his hand over hers as he guided her fingers through a pluck. He had long, elegant fingers that overtook her by much, and though there was callouses on his palm, his touch was as tender as could be. He was leaning over her now, his voice nearly in her hair as he spoke.

“You must always draw your fingers back after you play a note,” he instructs in a murmur, his rich voice sending a chill down her spine. He shows her by let her finger down onto a string, letting it resonate a note as he pushing her finger inward to her palm. “Imagine that as a little bird returns home to her nest, your fingertip should return to your palm.” Could words be magic? Sansa thinks it so. He cradled her hand now, which now tingled as he touched. Sansa felt her breath grow short as she felt his own breath on her head.

 _Gods help me,_ she finds herself pleading as her heart beat, beat, beat, threatening to jump up her throat and escape in a joyful sob. No boy, no man, had ever made her made her feel such, as if she would ache if his hand ever left hers, that his voice might be absent from her life for longer than a day. For the briefest moment, Sansa thinks it betrayal, not only of the heart but of kin. This was her aunt’s husband, the father of her children, as few as they were. This was her partner for life, but one that had been thrust upon her in an arrangement that seemed distasteful to her. _I do no harm by bringing him joy,_ Sansa assures herself. _If his wife fails him in this, then I shall do it myself._

When his hands leave hers, he leaves a tingle behind that thrums underneath her skin. He leans back and away from her, allowing her breaths to return to her, albeit slowly. She felt dizzy enough to faint, she thinks, and she thinks she might if it meant she would fall into his arms.

 _I’m in love,_ she thinks as conscious thought returns to her, a giddy smile gracing her face. _I’m in love with the king._

“Continue, my lady,” he commands kindly, and she obeys.

* * *

The cousins all sit at the table this time, one not far from the adults who conversed amongst themselves. Sansa does like this so, that she spends time with cousins who were largely unseen. They are all so very different, she realizes, despite springing from the same pair, and not only in appearance. Rhaella continued to inspire awe and envy from her as she traipsed in gorgeous dresses everyday, looking and acting very much the princess. Sansa has dresses such as those too, thanks to her aunt, but not even the Queen could buy her a royal title. It seemed she enamored every boy in the North despite her young age, and it was not difficult to see why. She was graceful, demure, and lovely, and practiced those traits with precocious maturity.

Sansa was sandwiched between her older cousins, who are like the sun and moon. Daeron was the sun, beautiful, bright, warming Sansa’s cheeks more than any boy ever had with his dazzling smiles and bawdy japes. His silver hair shined and gleamed like a sword in the light of day, and his purple eyes were an unbleached purple. But it was also he who could inspire crowds to laughter, who charmed everyone who came his way. He had charmed Sansa, and he certainly charmed Jeyne, who looked upon as if he were a god on earth and gave doleful sighs whenever he was in sight.

Jon, however, was the moon. He had dark hair, dark grey eyes, and a dark shadow of a beard on his long face. He did not speak often, preferring to observe others thoughtfully, but when he did open his mouth, the words were always sage and precise, unlike his brother’s reckless speech. Though he was a fair sight in his leanness, as his brother was in his muscularity, he was not the one Sansa found herself looking to most. Her gaze would turn to Daeron to look at his chiseled face, so much like his father’s it was, but her ears had learned to listen to Jon. He was more interesting to speak to anyway, as there was a gracefulness in his speech that reminded her of the king.

As the reminder, as she was reminded of the king often, she looks to him, finding him at his usual place by his wife, his eyes focused on her father as he spoke, while his hand held the queen’s over the table.

Sansa knows that feeling. Her knuckles tingled at the memory of earlier today, and her heart beat at his words. _”I wrote it for someone close to my heart.”_ Such mystery! Sansa thinks it may be for someone among his children, yet the way he had looked at her…

"What can you tell me about your father, Prince Jon?" Sansa asks, her eyes dreamily cast his way. Perhaps it was strange for her to ask, but she cannot help it. She thinks she is in love with the king, truly and utterly in love, and all she wished to speak about was him.

"My father?” her cousin responds with surprise. "There is much to say about my father, Lady Sansa, though I would venture to say that you've heard most of it." Honorable, kind, strong, gallant, smart; all this she knew.

"Tell me something only you know, my lord," she urges breathily. "A fond memory. A happy one."

He furrows his dark brows as he ponders this, looking much like her own father when he was deep in thought. "I have an early memory of him that I often recall," he muses softly; Sansa has to lean in closer to hear. “It is from when I was little. He used sit in the Iron Throne with me on his knee. He would have proceedings, meet diplomats, hear laments, all with me in his lap." He pauses, then gives a soft, radiant smile at the warmth of his memory. "When the throne room was empty, he would tell me stories about kings and queens. My father has a golden tongue; when he spoke, words came to life, I swear it."

Daeron gives a snicker at the absurdity, but Jon does not react. Sansa wished to glower at him, however. The prince seemed happy in his thoughts. But it was more than that; Sansa understood what Jon meant. The king had a way with words she had never heard before, as if he painted with his voice and every listening ear was his canvas.

“He once sat me on his knee, and told me that this would all be mine: the small folk’s complaints, the diplomat’s proposals, the difficult decisions. That I would be king one day, that I would have to learn to listen to people of all sorts, to understand and to rule fairly. To be a great king as the ones he would tell me about.” He blinks, falling out of recollection and into the present. His hard grey eyes fix on her unwaveringly, and the smile on his face is faint. “He still has me stay for proceedings, only not in his lap." He smiles more broadly now, making known his jape. Sansa gave a courteous giggle; Daeron gave a groan.

"How it must feel to be our parents' favorite, dearest brother!" he cries out with scorn— or was it envy? —dripping off his words. Sansa looks to him with wide, critical eyes. It seemed such a sudden complaint, and entirely unwarranted after Jon’s sweet words.

"I am not their favorite," Jon returned with a scowl. "It is only that I do not regularly do foolish things that cause them to worry so."

"You are their favorite, Jon, do not pretend it were otherwise,” Daeron responds, resolute. It is clear in his lavender eyes that there were things between them that Sansa could not understand, and she thought it wise to simply remain quiet.

"I am not. They love us all the same-"

"Oh, shut up!" Daeron returned sharply. "You cannot tell me that when mother dotes on you like you were a child still."

"I denied being _both_ their favorites, dearest brother mine.” He gives a mocking smile then. “I know very well that I am mother's favorite."

This reversal in their sparring lends enough fury to Daeron to have him rise and storm off. Sansa watches him walk away worriedly, wondering if he would do something foolish. She sees Robb panic in the corner of her eye, perhaps unknowing if he should chase after his cousin or remain. He chooses to stay, enjoying Rhaella’s company more.

Jon, however, is not preening over his victory. He sits with a somber expression on his face, stormy eyes fading somewhere far away.

“Cousin Jon?" Sansa asks innocently, touching his wrist. He comes back with a shake of his head, and a smile.

"My brother is his own greatest enemy," he remarks with a shrug. "But I am my mother's favorite, Lady Sansa, make no mistake about it." His warmth and charm causes her to involuntarily giggle.

"How are you her favorite, Prince Jon? Doesn't a mother love all her children the same?" She thinks to her own mother, for whom this held true.

"I did not say she loved me most, dearest cousin, only that I was her favorite," he clarifies with a raise of his brows. But his expression quickly turns solemn again as he seems recount a memory. "You see, my lady, my mother wed at a young age. Too young for some."

"She was fourteen," Sansa recalls. She was older than that now, but she still wished to wed. Her aunt had instructed otherwise, but her aunt could not stop her. Her aunt also did not know that the man she loved was her own husband, but it was just as well.

"Fourteen is young. That is the age she became pregnant with me and at fifteen she had birthed me." He shows no discomfort in speaking about such a womanly matter; only a hint of sorrow that Sansa finds peculiar. "I fear my mother had been terribly unhappy in her marriage then. She was lonely, and had little love for my father. Not to mention she had dealt with my grandfather, whom they say was as cruel as he was mad." Sansa is not surprised to hear all this. She had always assumed that the queen did not love her husband, though she was not aware that it had occurred from the start. "In many ways I became her only friend. I had hardly left her side, I'm told, as she pained to be away from me. It would be two years before she had my brother, but by then her condition had improved, and she was happier. But I remained her first born, her comforter of in her lonely days, and it seems that she had never been able to relinquish her particular affections for me.”

Jon takes pride in this, she sees. His mother was clearly someone very special to him, and close to his heart. Sansa looks to the queen, who was whispering something to her lady mother, and she finds that she can imagine her love being consolidated for her children, particularly her wise first born.

“Cousin Jon?” Sansa asks hesitantly, looking back to the prince. “Does your mother love your father?”

He is surprised by the boldness of her question, raising his brows in astonishment. Sansa thinks to retract her words, but he looked at her thoughtfully, and said, “Well, Lady Sansa, she—“

The room suddenly falls into a hush that silences him. Sansa wants to curse at the interruption of such an important answer, but then she sees what has caused the lull. She follows Jon’s eyes to the front of the room, where the king sat solitarily with his silver harp to his chest, his lips parted in preparation for song.

Sansa’s heart skips a beat when the king plays the opening notes. It falls upon her ears in familiarity as the song he played earlier that day, when he told her she would not hear it ’til tonight. It’s sweet rhythm washed over her in awe as it had before, but paired with his divine voice Sansa felt tears swim up to her eyes. Her ears were keen to each delicate rise, every graceful fall, the mountains and valleys of the song leaving her feeling dizzy and weepy.

But the words: they were artful and disguised, but he sang of a maid of the North with long lovely hair, fair skin, and bright eyes. It was a love song filled to the brim with courtly passion that Sansa might think was for his wife, but in the middle of the song his stunning eyes land on her. He gives her a knowing smile, a secret nudge, and it was then that Sansa’s tears ceased to fall as a gasp escaped her lips.

 _”I wrote it for someone close to my heart,”_ he had told her that day.

_He wrote it for me._

A Northern maid like her, with long hair like her, with eyes like her and skin like her. A maid who was fair and graceful, with lovely hands and a sweet smile, all like her, it must, it _had_ to be her. He looked to Sansa, after all, and no one else.

The song was hers.

When the music ends, the hall erupts into applause, but Sansa does not join them. She looked down to her hands to find them trembling at joy she felt. No one had ever sang for her before and certainly no _king_. If she had any doubts about her love before, they had been swept away with the beauty of his voice.

Jon laughs at her for the tears on her face. “My father does that, it seems,” he had said, still smiling in amusement. He even takes a handkerchief to wipe her face dry. Sansa felt his warm fingers through the cloth, but she stared at his face blankly. She could only think of her romantic king and his passionate heart, and how it was wasted on her aunt.

Sansa retires to bed as Jon as her escort. He spoke softly to her on the way, but she did not hear him. Her ears still heard the king’s song, even when he kissed her hand, and even when she fell into bed, head spinning, spinning, spinning, until she thinks she may faint from joy.

She lingers on thoughts of him, of his gentle voice and tender touch, of his sweet song and loving words. In a moment of madness, Sansa rose from her bed and left her chambers, her bare feet padding down the halls searching for a room. She was dressed only in her nightgown and her hair was loose and wild, but Sansa didn’t care, for he king had said he liked her hair, and Sansa wished to tell him that she liked his song. And perhaps, she might even tell him that she loved him, that she understood his pain, that his passions would not be wasted on her. She wanted to say all this tonight, as not other night would be as wonderful or as magical as tonight.

He would accept her; surely, he would.


	4. Prayers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa goes to approach her king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I'm so so so sorry to all my readers for the delay. I still have chapters to write for other works, and I've been incredibly busy for the past few months, too busy to write. For that I'm so sorry, especially since this is not my best chapter and since I know I have readers who wait for my updates and ugh I feel terrible I really do!
> 
> Hopefully everything will be updated within the the next couple of weeks. Forgive me!

Sansa pads down to the hall were the royal family was housed. It was in this corridor, in the empty room on the end, that Sansa had done her lessons with the king. Her cousins slept in three different rooms on that same side of the corridor, and the king and queen slept in the rooms on the other. Her lady mother had arranged two rooms for them; one for the king, one for the queen. Sansa had thought it ordinary procedure to give them separate rooms, but now she feels it had been requested.

There are no guards posted outside the doors, which Sansa finds peculiar. She thinks nothing of it, though; it was better that she did not have to explain herself to frightening Ser Gerold or noble Ser Arthur.

She sees that the door to the king's chambers are slightly ajar, and that light shines from within. Sansa takes quiet steps so as not to wake her sleeping cousins, dancing on her toes to the tune of the song the king played for her until she reaches the door.

She extends a closed hand to knock so that she does not surprise him, but voices from within give her pause. Sansa returns her hand to her side and tentatively peers through the crack of the door, though her mind cried out that she shouldn't. To spy was rude, this she knew, but her curiosity got the better of her.

A woman's laugh reaches her ear before she sees who made it. Inside, leaning on a dresser was her aunt the queen, dressed in a sleeveless cream nightgown and smiling at someone in the room. She looks dazzling, Sansa thinks, with her long brown hair loose and wild over her ivory skin, her grey eyes sparkling as she looked to the other person. Sansa sees that the strings on the front of her nightgown are untied, her small breasts almost bare, while her fair face with flushed with pink.

"You must chase me, my love," she trills with breathless excitement, her voice carrying a lilt of coyness. "If I am your Northern maid with long, lovely hair and bright, bright eyes then you-"

A man comes into view, grabbing her aunt’s waist to push her up onto the dresser, making her laugh with delight. The man is without a tunic, the muscles of his back chiseled and rippling as silver hair covered some of it. Sansa bites back a gasp; it is King Rhaegar, in nothing but trousers, kissing at her aunt's neck feverishly. Lyanna clutches at his back, wrapping her legs around his waist as her giggles evaporated into soft moans. Sansa knew that she ought to look away, that this was not a sight for her eyes, but she cannot. Her gaze is fixed on this amorous pair, baffled by what she saw.

The king's hands, the ones that had touched hers, slid up her aunt's thighs, pushing up her nightgown. They suddenly pause their swift movements to gaze at each other.

In her aunt's eyes, she saw nothing but tenderness overflowing from their grey depths. Her hand stroked her husband's cheek, tracing the lines and curves of his face with slow gentleness. Sansa had never seen her aunt so, behaving starstruck and loving for the king. She hardly showed any feelings for him at all.

Sansa saw the side of the king's face, enough to catch a glimpse of his eyes, which mirrored his wife's. Sweet, loving, gentle; all this and more passionate feelings shone in them as he gaze upon her face as she'd often seen her father gaze upon her mother. Sansa knew the feeling that coursed through their veins, as it pushed through hers now: it was love.

"Do you plan to ravish your Northern maid?" her aunt asked with a sly smile, still touching his face. "If you should leave a mark on my fair fair skin I fear I will be forced to blush.” These words were all from the song, the one Sansa thought was hers. Was she wrong?

"I would not leave a mark," the king assures her with a smile of his own, so unlike the kind one he'd given Sansa. This one was filled with enough desire to make Sansa blush and wish to look away if her eyes weren’t fixed to the scene. "I would be gentle with my maid's lovely thighs and tender with her soft breasts..." He bows his head to kiss the tops of them, causing her aunt to laugh again.

"I do not recall that being in your song,” she returns cheekily as he raises his head again, giving a soft chuckle as he meets her eye again.

"I must admit that the Lady Sansa had inspired no more than what was pure," he says. Sansa holds her breath at her own mention. Leaning in a little more to listen closely. Perhaps now he’ll say some of how he liked her so much, that he enjoyed her company tremendously…

“Is she not the loveliest creature?” her aunt gushes proudly. Sansa frowns; these were not the lips she wished to hear it from. “It was so good of you to teach her the high harp. She does so love these courtly frivolities.”

“That is why I taught her,” the king returns, placing another kiss to his wife’s neck. “You always fear that your presents are not to your nieces’ and nephews’ liking. I had only hoped to ease your worries, and to please your kin.”

The queen gives a little chuckle. “I know I had asked you to please them, but you have done much more than that. I have heard of your adventures of late, my love. A little sword for Arya, a suit of armor for Robb. A weirwood bow for Bran, and… what was it that you got Rickon?”

“A unicorn statuette,” he murmurs on her skin. Sansa feels hot, stupid tears prick her eyes.

“I am so fortunate,” her aunt sighs. “I am wed to the greatest man in the Seven Kingdoms, truly.”

“The good fortune is mine.”

“Of course it is yours as well, for I am the greatest woman.” She giggles when he places another ravenous kiss, this time on her jaw. Sansa’s throat burned as she watched them, the picture of love and passion, of respect and understanding. Never had Sansa seen them so passionate, but then she might have never noticed. Or perhaps she only saw what she wished to see, and heard what she wished to hear.

“I do love you, my dragonknight,” Sansa hears her aunt gasp, her eyes heavy-lidded in ecstasy. “But your Northern maid would prefer you to make love to her than write her a song.”

Sansa turns away, unable to watch and listen any longer.

 _Stupid girl,_ she began to chastise herself. _Did you truly think the king loved you? Did you truly believe he felt anything for you?_ Sansa trembles as she brings her hands to her face. _Stupid, stupid girl. He did for you what he would do for anyone. He did it to please his wife, your aunt, not you. What did you expect?_

Sansa had never felt so foolish in her life. The king’s touch, his instruction at the harp, his voice in her hair and singing at supper; all of this she had read with lovelorn eyes, and understood it to be his own love, the one that was not returned by his wife. But his wife did love him, only in private. Sansa had seen it before her eyes now, did she not?

 _What did you expect?_ the voices asks again. _That he would abandon her for you? Shame his wife and children so he may carry on a love with you?_

What _did_ she expect? Love, she had expected love. She felt it in her heart now, a sharp relentless ache as her shame and sorrow washed over her in like sharp rain, like pinpricks. The king had only extended the same kindness to her as he had shared with everyone else, and so he could please his queen. Nothing that had passed between Sansa and the king was special. She had invented all the romance herself.

Tears blurred her vision as she begins to run so she may escape the amorous noises of the royal couple. The courtly couples she had seen before suddenly lost all charm, since she felt now she would never become a part of one. At least, not with the man she loved.

She runs straight into someone as she let out choking sobs, but as moved to push past the man, he grabbed her wrist and whirled her back.

“Lady Sansa?” Jon’s soft voice called to her with confusion. Sansa looks up at him through tear-filled eyes, her sorrow turning more and more into shame. She did not want the prince to see her cry; she did not want anyone to see her cry. “My lady, what is it?”

“Nothing,” she blubbers, yanking her wrist away.

“It isn’t Daeron, is it?” he asks her as she tries to move away. But grabs her by the shoulders, stilling her so he can look at her with concerned grey eyes, orbs too much like his mother’s, the one she betrayed in heart. “He didn’t do anything to you?”

Sansa does not answer. She wriggles once more out of his grasp and runs back to her room blindly as tears blurred her vision. She knows she slams the door too loudly, but she hardly cares. Collapsing onto the bed, Sansa wept and wept, each falling tear worsening the pain she felt. For all her shame and stupidity, Sansa loved the king. She loved his shining silver hair, his kind eyes, his deep, rich voice that delighted her when he spoke. Every word he uttered had been gold to her, something she pocketed and cherished, and every accidental touch was a gift that kept her skin tingling for hours after.

How stupid could she be to think that the queen did not love him? It was impossible not to love him. Perhaps three children was a small brood and that she did not return his affections in daylight, but King Rhaegar was still King Rhaegar. He was still something to be adored.

By the time dawn breaks, Sansa’s cistern of tears had been emptied, with not a drop left to spare. All that remained was a horrible thirst and a dull ache in her skin. She felt lifeless atop her furs, like a doll that had been played with until her seams broke. For true, Sansa did feel broken. She had put so much in the king that her loss felt terribly keen.

A knock comes to her door some hours later, though Sansa cannot be bothered to turn around and see who comes. She remains motionless on her bed, wet cheek pressed to her damp pillow. The bed sank behind her when whoever entered sat down. Sansa still did not look.

A small hand rests on her arm, one whose touch was gentle. “Sansa dearest?” her aunt’s voice calls to her.

Sansa nearly wept again at her presence. How could she face her aunt? The one she had betrayed in her own heart, the one she had misunderstood and had no qualms about hurting, should the king had returned her feelings? Her aunt was a Stark, her own kin, and Sansa had thought cruelly of her. She squeezes her burning eyes shut.

“Jon tells me he saw you weeping the night before,” the queen’s soothing voice said to her. “He fears Daeron had played a hand in it. Did he?” Sansa cannot muster the words to respond, nor the energy to shake her head. “My youngest son can be unkind, Sansa, I know, and I shall have him apologize to you if he was. But if he had… been untoward with you…”

Sansa blushed at her implication. Her aunt asked if her son had behaved as amorously as the queen and king had, and then broken her heart. But it is not so.

“Daeron did nothing, your grace,” Sansa rasps in return, still unable to meet her eye.

“Truly nothing? If he had even said something to you—“

“Nothing.”

The queen goes quiet for some time, which came as a welcome relief to Sansa. She did not want to hear her aunt’s voice lest that guilt overcame her and forced more sobs.

“Very well, darling,” she relents after some time, a gentle hand smoothing her hair back. She forgot about her aunt’s tender touch; it was truly soothing, always sought out by Rickon and Bran and Arya when she came, and even Robb would seek it out too. It was a mother’s touch, kind and understanding, but it was also a queen’s, blessing whatever brushed her fingertips. “I shall leave you for now. Will you have me call your mother to your bedchamber?”

Sansa shakes her head, unable to manage a response. Her aunt lifts her delicate hand from her hair, then rises. She hears her footsteps as she walks along with the creak of the door as it is shut again.

Sansa turns to bury her tearstained face into her wet pillow feeling worse than she had before. Her aunt was truly the last person she wished to see. Even the king would have been more welcome, with all the pain he would have brought her.

She stays in bed an hour more before she is disturbed again. This time, the person makes its identity known immediately.

“Why are you crying, stupid?” Arya’s irritating voice asks her with contempt. Sansa groans, propping herself up on her elbow to glare at her sister.

“Go away, Arya,” she hisses between gritted teeth. She wasn’t even crying anymore.

“Well, everyone’s all worried for you,” her sister huffed as she stomped over to her bed. “Mother’s worried for you, father’s worried for you, even _Jon_ is worried for you. Aunt Lyanna told us all to stay away.”

Sansa sniffles. “Then why didn’t you listen to her?”

Arya frowns, a softness passing into her eyes. “I wanted to be sure you were alright,” she returns meekly before fierceness suddenly returned to her, furrowing her brows. “If someone hurt you, Sansa, I’ll hurt him back.”

Sansa looked to her sister with surprise. Arya was not one to freely show her affections, and Sansa was usually not the one to receive them. But Arya was no liar, either. It was clear in her dark grey eyes that she meant what she said. Sansa wonders if Arya would hurt the king if she asked.

“No one hurt me,” Sansa tells her quietly, lowering her eyes which were surely filling with a look of shame again. “I was stupid, that’s all.”

Arya hops up on her bed, her back to her. She was kicking her legs beneath her, her heels hitting the bed frame and making thumping noises. “Well, they’ll be leaving tomorrow, you know. So you probably don’t want to stay in bed.”

Sansa’s eyes widen in shock. _Tomorrow? So soon?_ She had already forgotten that the royal procession had been here a whole week. The days had moved by in such at such a slow, delightful pace that Sansa had lost track of time. Perhaps her own mind was telling her that they would stay a moon’s turn, as her aunt always had. She had forgotten that a kingdom cannot be deprived of both monarchs for so long.

Sansa sits up, rubbing her red rimmed eyes. She knows she’ll have to wash her face to get rid of this horrid look; she only wished it would wash away the ache inside her chest too.

 _Perhaps it is better that they leave,_ she finds herself thinking. _The sooner they are gone, the sooner I might forget all this._

She suddenly thinks of Jon and the kindness he’d paid her, all of which she ignored. He had been remarkably benevolent, and in many ways a true gentleman. He had wiped away her tears at supper, kissed her hand after escorting her to her room, and cared enough to stop her in the corridor to ask if she bade well. His smile swam up to the front of her head, gentle and sweet, along with his compassionate grey eyes. His mother’s eyes, Sansa realized, and her father’s and uncles’. He looked more a Stark than Robb did, in truth.

Arya stays sitting on her bed, kicking her legs, as Sansa gets up to ready herself. She does not want to worry anyone any longer, despite her hurt. Her head throbbed as she took her first steps, and she staggered to the water basin, where she washed her face. She then got dressed, in a plain white Northern gown with bell sleeves that made Sansa feel like Maester Luwin, hiding her hands in them. Arya bounds over to lace her up, and the two walk out of her room together.

“Why were you crying anyway?” Arya asks nosily as they pad down the hall.

Sansa frowns. “I don’t want to say,” she responds defiantly, looking away from her sister. To admit the foolish truth would have been too much. She thinks she will never tell anyone.

Arya just shrugs, not one for gossip anyway. For once, Sansa is glad her sister was the way she was.

They reach the bottom floor to the sound of incredible bustle outside. There was shouting, the buzz of whispers, the whinny of horses, a cacophony of unhappy sounds. The two sisters look to each other before making their way outside; Arya runs while Sansa walks, her head hurting too much to make much movement.

There is a large crowd gathered around another group, whom Sansa saw were her mother, father, uncle, and Lady Barbrey. They too circled around two figures on the ground, whom Sansa cannot see even when she stands on her toes. She sees Arya push through the people in her rough manner, but Sansa does not do the same.

“What happened?” she asks a lady beside her.

“The king fell from his horse during his ride,” the woman answered her eyes searching through the mass of people.

Sansa cannot help but gasp, a rush of concern shooting into her system. She began to sweat and tremble, her feelings for the king overwhelming her now that he was in pain. And yet, at the same time, Sansa wished to feel apathy. She wanted to feel nothing at all.

Then suddenly, the top of his silver-gold head peeks through the throngs of people, and the crowd parts for him. Sansa backs away too, but looks to see that the king walked with Maester Luwin leading the way, Rhaella on one side, tears in her eyes, and his wife on the other.

Her aunt looked up to him with a wildness in her eyes, savage worry apparent in her features. Jon walked beside her, and Daeron followed with a look of mild concern.

“Go; it is nothing,” she hears the king murmur to the queen as they passed by, but it seemed clear that her aunt had no intention of leaving. She had the look Arya would get when she was forbidden something: a stubborn set of jaw, fiery eyes, and a new resolve to do exactly the opposite than what she had been told.

Sansa holds her breath until the king is indoors, her eyes betraying her good sense by looking to him as he enters. Then she lowered her head, and worried.

“Will the king be alright?” she heard Arya ask her mother nearby.

“The maester says it is only a broken rib,” she replies. “The king shall be fine; his stay may be extended, however.”

Sansa cannot help but feel a pinch of joy at this. The king would stay longer, not yet leaving her sight, and that was still a sweet feeling if she could ignore the bitterness of it too. She could not abandon the king so quickly, it seemed.

 

* * *

 

Sansa had not even finished her lunch when the urge to see the king overcame her. It was between mouthfuls of bacon and bread that she found her heart thumping wildly against her chest, painfully aware of the empty spaces that the royal family left at the table, each one tending to their king. Not even indifferent Daeron was present, his roguish smile and bawdy japes absent from the meal.

But her anxiety is brought on not by the lack of the princes or the princess, or even the queen; as much as it shamed her to admit it, it was the king she wished to see more than anyone else. She felt like a maiden without her knight when he was not there, her appetite shrunk down to a minuscule size as worry filled her roiling stomach instead.

 _I wonder if this is how mother feels when father examines the holds?_ Her mother always put on a brave face when father went off to settle a quarrel in some village, but she knew that she longed for him while he was away. They always reunited in such a big embrace and warm kisses that it both warmed her heart and embarrassed her to witness it. But that was love, wasn’t it? Pain when one half was gone?

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek, feeling foolish. _There are no halves,_ she chastised herself. _There is only you and your silly dreams._

“Sansa, whatever is the matter with you?” her mother asks from across the table. Sansa looks up from her food to meet her mother’s concerned blue eyes. Her father sat beside her, looking silently upon her, no doubt wondering the same thing.

“I’m not hungry,” Sansa mumbled in return, pushing around a bit of her potatoes.

“The queen told me of the state you were in this morning,” her mother continued, softening her voice. Everyone else was beginning to stare at her; Robb, Arya, Bran, and even Rickon. “Sansa dearest, if there is an issue—“

“May I be excused?” she blurted out, rising to her feet before she could even get a response. Her mother purses her lips, then gives her a stare that warned that they would speak later.

“You may go, Sansa,” her father answers, giving his wife a knowing look.

“Thank you,” Sansa grumbles before she stormed out, red-faced. She has no destination in mind when she leaves the dining hall, only the resolve to get away from everybody. She wanted to be alone, for once, and away from her own thoughts of a king she thought she loved.

There was only one place where she could be at peace. It was a place she rarely visited, but was more quiet and thoughtful than any other place she knew.

The night was not yet dark, but instead caught somewhere between sundown and evening, with the sun’s red light still brightening the dim sky. Even without light Sansa knew her way; she padded softly through the godswood, feeling brave for ignoring the ravens’ calls, until she came upon the reflection pool, the altar, and the heart tree.

The water in the pool sparkled still, dappled with the red of the heart tree’s crimson leaves. She moved to the altar, kneeling before it, and bowed her head without looking upon the trunk of the heart tree. It shamed her to admit it, but the face carved in it still scared her as it did when she first saw it years and years ago. It always looked so hollow, so sad, so frightened. Sansa hated it.

She clasped her hands together and bowed her head, but no words left her lips. She was not the religious sort, despite her mother’s devotion to the Seven and her father’s alignment with the Old Gods. But she did like to pray, and pray alone.

“O Gods,” she began with uncertainty. “Please bring the king a swift recovery. Look over him and keep him safe.” She wanted to bite her cheeks for her foolish prayer, but it was her own stinging tears that kept her from continuing. Her hands unclasped as she buried her face in them, hiding her shame from the unflinching heart tree. “I love him so, I do,” she whispered, angry at herself, angry at the queen, angry at everyone who loved him too.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a rustle in the dark. Sansa gasps and turns quickly, her eyes searching the blackening night. “Who’s there?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from trembling. There is a moment’s silence before a tall, lithe figure steps forward, still shadowed in the boughs of the forest.

“Lady Sansa,” it spoke in a voice rich and true. Sansa heart began to beat madly against her chest when the visitor’s face entered the light. “I’m sorry.”


	5. Hopeless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finds the bearings to let it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God. It's been like... 8 months? Jeez. I'm so sorry! Uni picked up again and I've been very, very busy. Luckily, I'm working on all of my fics right now, as I'm kind of sort of finding the time for them. I hope this doesn't disappoint!

Sansa wipes frantically at the hot tears on her face, not wanting the man before her to see them. As dark as it was he may not have seen them at all, but she would not take the chance that a sliver of moonlight may make them sparkle on her skin.

"Wh-Who goes there?" she squeaks, failing to steady her voice. She had not meant to be seen here, not this late at night. If it is a guard, he will bring her to her parents and they would scold her as if she were a child.

The man steps into the moonlight. “I’m sorry, my lady,” he mutters, just as embarrassed. “I did not meant to interrupt…”

_Jon._

He was dressed rather simply, in an unembellished leather jerkin worn over a plain white blouse. There was a shadow of a beard on his face and his dark curls were somewhat unkempt. There is a sword on his hip as well, one that was distinct by the white head of a direwolf on its hilt.

Sansa rises, feeling foolish before him. She hopes that it is dark enough that he did not see any remnants of her crying. It would be too difficult to explain such a thing to him. “Prince Jon,” she mumbles, giving a tight smile. “What… What are you doing here?”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, as if anxious about something himself. “I have come here… to pray,” he admits, looking down at the ground. “But I have interrupted you. I should go—“

“No,” Sansa finds herself insisting, perhaps a bit too fiercely. Backtracking, she says softly, “W-What I mean is that… this is a godswood, a-and if you have come to pray, then who am I to stop you, your grace?”

His dark eyes analyze her for some moments before his face relaxes into a smile. “You do not mind if I pray with you, then?”

“Not at all,” she murmurs. It would be much better on her if she were to be caught returning; that way, she would have an escort, and her parents could not scold her for being alone after dark. “Though I must admit I did not expect you to hold to the Old Gods.”

He gives a warm chuckle. “I am more a northman than you think, Lady Sansa. Though my parents have raised me both the Old Gods and the New, I have always found more comfort in a godswood than a sept.” He takes pause, as if remembering something. “You were raised similarly, I imagine. Do you prefer one set of gods over the other?”

Sansa certainly did not expect to discuss matters of theology with the prince that night, yet here they were. It did, however, distract her from her girlish troubles. “I do not know if I do,” Sansa replies. “Some days I find more of my faith in the Seven. Others, I plead with the old gods. Every night before bed, however, I pray to both.” A blush makes its way into her cheeks. How childish she must seem to the prince, still a little girl who made time for prayers every night. But his eyes met her warmly and kindly, equal parts compassionate and understanding.

“But tonight you are here to plead,” Jon notes with a raise of his brows. “What for, my lady?”

Sansa’s lips part but she makes no sound. _I am praying that your father could love me back. I pray for relief from my heartache— But I cannot tell him that._ She had already betrayed her aunt in her affections; to confess them to her cousin would only make it more shameful.

“I am praying for the king’s health,” Sansa responds, not lying. “It grieved me to hear of his fall.”

To her surprise, the prince chuckles again. “I think you shall have nothing to fear on that front. My father is as strong as an ox, though he will insist that he is getting old. Moreover, he has my mother and sister to fuss over him. You ought to see them now, curled up on either side of him.”

She could hardly imagine it, but she did: the king abed with his queen on one side and his daughter on the other, the three sleeping peacefully. In her mind’s eye she sees Rhaegar’s arm around her aunt’s shoulders while her small hand rested upon his heart. The image makes Sansa’s throat constrict.

“Would you like to know what I pray for?” Jon asks her, pulling her from her miserable thoughts. To her surprise, she finds him unsheathing his sword, laying it across the altar, before he kneeled before it. His eyes were fixed on the heart tree before his hands meet in prayer. There is something breathtaking about him. His silver sword gleamed softly in the moonlight, reflecting onto his fair hair, bringing a sparkle to his eye. In his sharp profile she spies the elegance of his straight nose, the shape to his lips, and his regal chin.

 _He looks like a prince,_ Sansa admits. Of course she knew he was a prince, but her never _looked_ like one to her. Jon had always looked like he could be one of her brothers; Daeron, on the other hand, with his perfect silver hair, his square jaw, and his broad frame had seemed the very image of a prince.

But now, illuminated in the gentle moonlight, she sees there is more to him than she had realized. There is a gentle strength to his lithe frame, and an inimitable confidence in his hard gaze. He is not forceful and overeager to prove himself like some other young men, like his brother. His glory is muted, but at his own command.

“Sansa?” his clear voice cut through her thoughts, bringing her attention to his words. “Did you hear what I said?” he is smiling, kind.

“Oh, I…” Sansa murmurs, embarrassed. “You asked if I wished to know what you pray for.”

“And do you?” he asks. Sansa nods furiously, clasping her hands together. He chuckles, and waves her over. “Kneel beside me, Lady Sansa, so you’ll hear me better. I would not wish my prayers to venture farther than this altar.”

Gathering her skirts, she takes her place beside him. The nearness of him makes her heart beat for reasons she cannot explain. She hopes desperately he does not hear it. With focused eyes, she watched his hands unfold, palms upturned on the stone in an open prayer.

“O gods,” he begins, his voice the merest whisper, gentler than a breeze. “As Lady Sansa has prayed, I pray too for my father’s health, and that for as long as he is under your sights in the North, that you hasten his recovery.” The mention of the king burns her eyes with tears anew, but she quickly blinks them away, moving her thoughts solely to Jon’s voice. Following his suit, she lays open her hands next to his on the altar, and closes her eyes. “I pray you grant my parents long and happy lives, that my ascent to the throne be a peaceful one. When I do ascend, I pray you grant me the strength and wisdom to rule, and rule well.”

His thumb suddenly brushes hers, but she does not move it, as focused as she is on his soft words.

“I pray that I am able to protect my family always, and to continue the glory of my father’s realm. I pray that I may always find my sister smiling, and that my brother shall gain some semblance of grace soon.” There is a smile in his voice, and Sansa cannot help but chuckle. In this brief interlude, she feels the pressure of his thumb move to wrap around hers, linking them together. Sansa stirs out of the reverie inspired by Jon’s prayers to stare at their intertwined thumbs. “As a more selfish plea,” Jon continues, not noticing Sansa’s distraction. “I hope and pray that you shall grant me a woman that I may love as fiercely as my father does my mother.”

Sansa pulls her hand away. She is overwrought with emotion once more, now at Jon’s final prayer. The tears fall as they had before, flowing freely down her cheeks. She sees she has startled the prince, who turn to her with panic in his dark eyes.

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” he hurriedly offers, reaching out a hesitant hand that brushes her cheek before he pulls back. “I did not think— Your hand— I should not have touched you without asking, my lady. I—“

“No,” Sansa quickly sniffles, realizing the distress she had cause. “I had only— Your prayers had moved me, my prince. You are… You are very good with words, and I…”

_And I am a foolish girl who finds sorrow in her aunt’s joy._

Jon’s gentle fingers touch her face, wiping away at the tears. There is a crease of concern between his brows, and the slightest hint of regret in his solemn face. She feels worse looking at him; he is so kind to her, yet she…

“I shall escort you to your rooms, Lady Sansa, if you would permit it,” he tells her softly, fingers moving to brush a lock of hair behind her ear. She nods quietly, trying her best to regain some of her dignity as she faced him.

They walked silently side-by-side till they were inside the castle once more. As he had promised, he led her to her rooms. Somewhere between walking through the castle doors and reaching her room, her hand became enveloped in his. She accepted it, an innocent gesture as it was. When they reached her door, he let her hand go.

“Good night, Sansa,” he whispered to her, his dark Stark eyes meeting hers. “I’m sorry,” he adds, making Sansa’s heart wrench.

“Good night, Jon. Thank you,” she says in return, slipping through her door with her head down so he would not see her blush.  
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The king’s long fingers are at her cheek, stroking it softly. He does not smile, but his purple eyes do. He is happy with her, enormously happy. He wears his deep crimson doublet over black trousers. And she is in nothing but a thin slip. His hands wander downwards, across the thin column of her neck, to her collarbone, her breastbone, then finally her—

Sansa wakes with a start, panting heavily as she does. Oh gods, it was wrong, so terribly wrong. He was so much older than her. He was married. His wife was her _aunt_. She could not be thinking of him, he should not be able to set her body alight with emotion.

_You must end this fancy, Sansa. You cannot continue to dream of him. You cannot. It is forbidden and wicked and cruel. It is not fair to your aunt. It is not fair to the king. It is not fair to Jon…_

Suddenly she driven by some unknown force. It pulls her up out of bed, forces her to change into a dress for the day. Carefully, she plaits her auburn hair and wipes the dust of sleep out of her eyes. As she slips into shoes, she is already moving forward, her feet carrying her down a myriad of halls until she spies Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Arthur Dayne standing at either side of the mahogany door.

“Good morning, Lady Sansa,” Ser Arthur greets her with a warm smile. “There is color in your cheeks; are you embarrassed by something, or did you run the way here?”

Sansa catches herself panting; she did not _think_ she ran, but perhaps she did. She until has her skirts pulled up off the floor and bunched in her hands.

“I, uh, I…” Sansa stammers, regaining her composure. She drops her skirts and smooths the front of her dress. “I had hoped to see the king,” she admits in a small voice.

Ser Gerold cocks a brow. “A bit early, don’t you think?” he asks. Sansa feels her heart sink, her momentum dying away. Oh, she knew if she did not do this now, she would be lost forever. “You are fortunate the king is an early riser, however. Let me ask if he’ll have you.”

Sansa nods vigorously, watching as Ser Gerold knocks twice before slipping into the chambers. It seems like an age before he returns, leaving Sansa wringing her hands outside, avoiding the gaze of Ser Arthur Dayne. When Ser Gerold reappears, he gives a nod and opens the door for her.

Taking a deep breath, Sansa rolls her shoulders back and walks through the doors. The shades for the windows are opened wide, light pouring through the room. Then the humblest sight she’d ever seen met her eyes: atop the unmade bed sat her king, his silver hair shining. Then on his right, on his affected side, slept the queen in her nightgown, her head in her husband’s lap. On the left was his daughter, curled atop the sheets.

“Lady Sansa,” he calls to her with a soft smile. He closes the book in his hand, and at the same moment, Rhaella begins to stir. “Forgive me; we’re all still in our nightclothes, but I would not have wanted to turn you away when you wished to speak to me.”

Sansa’s lips part, but no words come out. What was she to say in such a situation? Part of the royal family sat before her at their humblest, their most human. Luckily, Rhaella’s lazy yawn saves her from speaking.

“Good morning, Sansa,” Rhaella mumbles, rubbing her eyes. “Good morning, father.”

“Morning, sweetling,” he returns, ruffling her messy curls. The book had been set aside now, and now his hand rested on his queen’s head, absentmindedly playing with her hair. Aunt Lyanna looked so peaceful with her head in his lap; in fact, she looked _radiant_. “Sansa wished to speak with me, Rhaella. Perhaps you ought to go downstairs and fetch us some breakfast?”

Rhaella nods, then slips out of the bed, obediently getting to her task. But before she passes Sansa, she stops to press a familial kiss to her cheek. “Morning, cousin Sansa. You look lovely today.”

“I…” Sansa breathes, blinking at her beautiful cousin. “Thank you, Rhaella.” Her cousin gives a small smile before bounding out the door with her hands behind her back.

“What is it you wished to tell me, Lady Sansa?” the king asks from the bed, purple eyes kind. Her heart skips a beat as she nears him, her hands meeting in tense apprehension.

“I had come to say… That is… I was so distressed to hear that you have fallen,” Sansa says, unsure if that had been what she had rushed here to say. “I do hope you are all right, your grace.”

“I’m fine, thank the Gods; Rhaella and your aunt had done much to ensure that I would be in good health.” He chuckles at this as Sansa’s eyes wander back to his hand, lost in his queen’s thick, glossy curls. Her aunt had wrapped her arms around the king’s leg like a pillow, her cheek pressed to his clothed thigh. They looked so heavenly together. “Since my stay has been extended, Lady Sansa,” the king says, drawing her attention back to him. “I think I may be able to show you a little more of the harp.”

Sansa smiles and lowers her gaze to the floor. “You really oughtn’t, your grace,” she insists softly. Those harp lessons had sown the seeds of her foolishness, after all. “Your recovery is paramount to my lessons.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Nonsense. I should be glad to teach you once the queen allows me to quit bedrest.”

“Really, your grace,” she returns with a little more force. “I… do not want to trouble you.”

His dark purple eyes look into hers, holding her gaze for an analytical moment before he smiled. “As you wish, Lady Sansa. But if you change your mind, I shall be more than happy to teach you.”

Sansa nods, nearly parting her lips to thank him before a soft sound interrupts. It is her aunt rising from her sleep, a contented hum low in her throat as she released her husband’s leg to stretch her arms above her head. The king’s attention is captured immediately, eyes focusing on his wife with a sort of reverence as she sat up to rest her head on his shoulder, thin arms wrapping around his middle. The king’s hand remains on her, encircling her waist ever so gently.

“Is that dearest Sansa’s voice I hear?” he aunt’s sleepy voice calls out, bright grey eyes opening to rest kindly on her. “Now you are certainly the fairest sight I could see first thing in the morning. Already I feel as if my day shall be wonderful.”

“Good morning, aunt Lya,” Sansa returns tremulously, watching with a mixture of awe and envy as the royal pair locked eyes, and then lips for a brief moment as they shared a brief morning kiss.

“Aye, a much fairer sight than my fool husband,” Lyanna continues, smiling up at said husband as she spoke. Sansa almost gasped; fool husband? Who would dare call the intelligent king a fool? “He bullied the horse he sat upon, dearest Sansa, and it had bullied him back. He has no one to blame but himself. Let that be a lesson to you, niece of mine. Do not bully any creature that bows between your legs.” Her aunt gives a wicked smile then that reddens Sansa’s cheeks.

The king only shakes his head and smiles. “Your aunt talks too much,” he says. In retaliation, his wife sticks her tongue out childishly, scrunching up her face as she did. The king only leans in to kiss the tip of her nose. The sight of their love so blatant in front of her was almost sickening. Somehow, it was worse than what she witnessed last night. Their actions last night had been pure passion; this was true love.

Sansa looks away from them for a moment, though they’ve ceased their affections. In a way she hoped that she could erase what she just saw, go back to the incorrect assumption that the two had no amour between them. Sansa wanted to pretend, just to pretend—

“Was there anything you needed from us, Sansa dear?” Her aunt asks of her, now sitting up and undoing the plait in her hair. The sun shone on her ivory skin and her husband’s hair, making them both appear to glow atop the white satin sheets. Radiant creatures, the king and queen were.

_They deserve each other._

Sansa shakes her head faintly. “I only wanted to pay my condolences,” she says with a forced smile, her trembling hands clasped over her middle. “I pray you recover very soon, your grace.” She hoped she did not sound as heartbroken as she felt. It would be so unseemly.

“Thank you, Lady Sansa,” the king returned dutifully. “I would rise and bow to you, but I fear doing so would lead me to breaking another rib.”

“Oh no, you shall remain where you are. Sansa will surely forgive you this,” her aunt returned sharply, though it was clear she said it out of utmost concern. It made Sansa’s heart hurt. “The only good part of your mess is that we shall be staying longer. You shall have plenty of time to tell Sansa what a wonderful girl she is.”

 _I would prefer he didn’t,_ she wanted to say, but she knew if she spoke, her voice would waver. Instead, she curtsies, hardly mumbles a good bye, and walks out.

 _Do not cry,_ she told herself as she walked down the hall. _Do not cry. You have cried enough, you fool._ It was all over, she had to tell herself. The first time she had seen their love with her own eyes, and now she had seen it again. There were no excuses to make, no way to convince herself otherwise. It was hopeless; the king’s belonged to the queen, and the queen cherished it above all.

At breakfast, she is listless, eating silently despite her sibling’s and cousins’ laughter and banter. She would force a smile and a nod when attention was brought to her, or someone looked to her for a reaction, but it was managed only for seconds at a time. Her heartache consumed her thoughts. Even as Daeron nudged her side playfully and Rhaella spoke to her in her sing-song voice, Sansa registered nothing. She only wanted to disappear for her foolishness and stupidity.

After breakfast, Sansa trudges outside, where Jeyne rushes over to her. “Sansa!” she cries out. “Oh, you shall never believe—“

“Not now, Jeyne,” she interrupts her friend with a soft sigh.

Her friend, now rebuffed, looked rather dejected. Her kind brown eyes widened like a hurt doe’s. Noticing this change, Sansa swallows her sorrow and says, “What is it?” 

“The princes were sparring in the courtyard just now,” Jeyne says, any semblance of injury replaced with her bubbly excitement. “Prince Jon won most marvelously, you see. And fairly. But Prince Daeron jumped up and demanded a rematch. The prince did not honor it, but his brother lunged at him anyway. Prince Jon moved so quickly that the prince fell within moments. It was unlike anything I had ever seen, Sansa!”

Sansa knew that Jeyne had seen plenty of matches among men in the courtyard, but she sensed that this one only enthralled her so because it was the princes who led it. Still, Sansa nods appreciatively, trying to seem as if her story had intrigued her.

“They’re still there now,” Jeyne adds, bouncing in place. “Come and see! Prince Daeron is so handsome when he broods. So frightening too!” She holds her hand and half-drags her in direction of the princes and the courtiers in the training yard. Indeed, Daeron could be seen on a bench sharpening his blade and glaring at some imperfection in the steel, while Jon twirled and thrusted his sword in practice on the other end.

In the training yard now was Ser Arthur and Jory Cassel, the two exchanging amiable smiles as they took swings at each other. Jeyne seemed rather overjoyed by this match too, though her delight was nothing in comparison to Arya, who stood a ways across from them with a thin little sword in her hand and wide, unblinking eyes. Sansa looked away from the sparring, uttering uninterested. It felt as if everything had been sucked of joy and color. When would it end?

In the corner of her eye, she spots Jon moving from his spot, sheathing his sword. His eyes were locked intently with hers. When he caught her attention, he jerked his head in the direction of the library tower. Sansa blinks, then points a finger toward herself. He nods, and begins to walk.

Sansa’s gaze darts to Jeyne, whose wide eyes were still fixed on Arthur and Jory as they laughed and brawled. She silently slips away from her friend to follow the prince, hoping to the gods that he was embarrassed by her actions the night before. If he was, then she would hardly bear it.

 _I’ll never ask to go to King’s Landing,_ Sansa swears. _I’ve behaved like a fool in front of them all, o gods._

Yet, she followed the prince, and hoped that heartache didn’t shine through her eyes.


End file.
